Page 162 of South of Nowhere

He pulled into the parking lot and slammed on the brakes.

Three vehicles sat in front of him. Mary Dove’s pickup truck, Dorion’s Pathfinder.

And a blue SUV with Oregon plates.

The vehicle that Tony had seen arrive at and leave the Compound, after scoring Mary Dove’s destination.

No! Margaret had found her prey!

He pulled the camper to the side of the lot and pushed outside fast.

Time was the critical factor now, not subtlety.

Mary Dove and Dorion each had separate rooms but only one that showed activity—shadows moving across the curtains.

He hurried to this door.

A deep breath. Hand on his pistol’s grip.

Then he pounded hard. “Open up. Now.”

Sounding like a police officer.

It seemed a strategic role to play at the moment. And he could think of nothing else to do. Motel doors are far harder to kick down than most people think.

The door swung open. Mary Dove stood there, frowning. “Oh, Colter. That was dramatic.”

Dropping his hand, he looked past her. Dorion sat in one of the cheap armchairs and in the other was the older woman he’d seen outside the Public Safety Office talking with his mother and Mrs. Petaluma. She now glanced at him and offered a pleasant smile.

He took an instinctive glance around the room.

There was no one else.

Shaw tugged his jacket close to hide his weapon.

Dorion gave him a complicated look.

Mary Dove closed the door. “Colter, I’d like you to meet someone.” She nodded to the older woman. “This is Margaret Evans.” A brief pause, and a smile. “Your half-sister.”

72.

Colter took a beer.

A Sierra Nevada.

When on a reward job, he liked to drink a local brew, and it didn’t get any more local than this brand.

The women were drinking pinot noir. It was Oregonian and he wondered if Margaret had brought it from wherever she lived in the state.

The woman had an elegance about her. Her straight gray hair, parted in the center, fell to the middle of her back. She wore a simple chain necklace. Three rings, subtle, small, were on fingers tipped in polish-free but carefully trimmed nails: tiger’s eye opal, a diamond and a twisty gold band, like a puzzle ring, on her heart finger. She had changed from the country dress she was wearing earlier and was now in a long denim skirt, white blouse and brown leather vest.

Not dissimilar from what Mary Dove occasionally wore.

Her eyes were dark and sharp and didn’t seem to miss a single thing in the room, including those in it. She was older, yes, but attractive by any standard.

He caught a glimpse of the pistol that had been mentioned in his father’s correspondence, the one from Eddy Street in San Francisco.A 1911 Colt. But she wasn’t carrying it holstered; the gun weighed two and a half pounds and featured a lengthy barrel. The weapon sat in a colorful macrame bag at her feet.

In a soothing voice, tinted with a European accent, she said, “We should dispose of the big question first. Yes, you and Dorion and Iarelegal half-siblings. We share Ashton as a father.”

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